whatever will be, will be
by DoubleCaramel
Summary: Ginny wants something new and Draco doesn't know what it is. A collection of drabbles come between the both of them and confusion ensues. Written for the DG Forum's 100 Days, 100 Drabbles Challenge.
1. New

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter does not belong to me; all I do is play with the characters. This disclaimer serves for every chapter to come.

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**New ****  
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Her head instinctively moved to the left when he tried to kiss her, his mouth landing on her cheek instead of her lips. His forehead rutted at her action, and he tried to move her face upwards but her hands trailed over his suit (his immaculate suit, as always) to push him away. She succeeded.

"Ginny?" he enquired, unsure of what the redhead intended.

"It's not enough,"she murmured, biting her lip (a terrible habit she acquired during her O.W.L's studying and never let go), and fighting not to give in and breathe the man's expensive cologne that drove her _oh, so mad_.

"What?" he asked loudly, forgetting for moments the rigid posture and firm smile that was his typical trademark, the Malfoy trademark. Her lips tilted into a smirk, an action she had been using a lot lately, (because of the blond man's influence, she was sure) at his confusion. _He has no idea, does he? _And she didn't even feel sorry . . . . She must be turning into him. She laughed despite herself and looked up facing the blonds', for once, unsure eyes.

"I need something new."

The wrinkle in his head increased and his hand moved to his tie, flattening it down across his shirt absentmindedly, a habit she had over the years came to identify as proof of his nervousness.

"New?" The incredulity and controlled anger in his one-word sentences were just as she imagined. He was getting predictable, and that should be reason enough. She told him so.

"Predictable?"

"Yes, _mon chérri._" The French is another thing she caught from him, not from Fleur like the bubblehead woman believes. His rants in the language amused her, and it was quite a letdown when she discovered he used _la langue de l'amour_ to rant about work. "Predictable, there is no spark. Capiche?"

A slight blush spread over her opponent's (in everything but the sheets, where he was gladly her partner) face and she could see he was ready to give her a cold icy reply, one that she had a great comeback for. She prepared for this. She had to move on, she didn't need a man who had nightmares at night, hated mud, used way too much cologne for her to think coherently and didn't intend to marry her one day. She knew she would miss the glamour but she needs something **new**.

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This is my sign-up for doom and the wonderful **100 Days, 100 Drabbles** challenge hosted by the DG Forum.

**Objective:** To write one hundred drabbles in one hundred days or less.

**Guidelines:**

**1**. The first drabble must be posted after June 20th and the last by September 27th, one hundred days later. The last drabble must be posted within one hundred days. If you aren't able to post on the last day of the challenge, then you may post them - and complete the challenge - earlier.

**2**. Drabbles must not be more than 400 words long. If you go over, edit.

**3**. Responses should not be posted in this thread. Instead, I suggest creating a new story and posting them there.

**4**. Drabbles must be posted in the order prompted, with the prompt as the title of the chapter.

_So_, wish me luck?

This one has 400 words _exactly_ and is my first entrance. Also, a very special thank you to **imadoodlenoodle** who was kind enough to Beta my first drabbles.

**...**

Reviews are much appreciated :) .


	2. Broken

**Broken**

Tom has seen the scenery too many times. Men are dumped; women always find a reason to dump them - because they forgot their birthday or stepped on their Persian cat - they _always _find a reason, and the poor blokes came here to cry their hearts out after gulping down a bottle of firewhiskey in one go, the occasional wizard even managing two bottles.

The blond man, with dishevelled hair and an untied shirt is no surprise for him. He has seen it all before. Soon ladies (the Knockturn Alley kind) will swamp him, but before he needs to talk to the guy himself. He's a bartender, it's his job. Besides, the blokes normally get sentimental at some point and give a drunken tip (the kind that pays for a meal in one of those fancy restaurants) and he feels like having _Eggs Benedict_, whatever that is, for breakfast.

"What happened to you, lad?" he asks, pretending to clean the counter. It's obvious that he isn't, but the man - soon to fall off his chair - is so beyond reality that he won't notice.

"I am a broken man!" he screams loudly, his voice breaking in the middle. Tom curses_, 'S__o it's the other problem that this one has_,' the kind that leaves no tip. Still, he might as well continue the conversation. Rubeus is in the other corner, and it is common knowledge that when he starts talking he doesn't shut up.

"You mean broke?"

"No. Broken! It's what _she_ said." He spits the word 'she' as if it's venomous, and Tom smiles shamelessly (it's not as if the boy is paying attention), for he might be receiving a tip after all. "She said I was broken! And that she needed something new, that I am old. That I am _predictable_."

'_And you are_,' Tom thinks to himself, '_soon the blondes_ (fake blondes, but still with an apparent yellow hair colour, old as raptors but pretending to be fresh Hogwarts graduates) _will come and you won't say no_.' It's always the same.

Tom hands him another glass of firewhiskey. "Here boy, drink away."

Later someone comes for the blond, screaming is involved, but Tom only sees the twenty galleons left behind on the counter.

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**Words : **378

(re-uploaded after small edit - it was bugging me - I apologise! ;)


	3. Hope

**Hope**

"What do you hope for Ginny? It's been too long, he's moved on."

Well, for starters Ginny hoped people wouldn't lie to her. Sure, she did a bit of lying herself but she had the art of subtlety working in her favour, which Hermione did not. Forcing a very fake smile at the door after making sure one had nothing better to do before tossing, "Sure, we had hopes you would visit us soon!", did not pass as good hosting. Everybody, (well, everybody who didn't live in _Babbitiy Rabbity's_ fairytale world), knew the only thing her sister-in-law cared about was Ron, Harry and 'Hogwarts: A History'. Perhaps she was exaggerating; she did like Hermione, predominately because of her wanting to endure Ron everyday of her life if for nothing else, but the older woman's sugar smiles, boring questions about her job and defensive attitude towards Harry were getting to her. Slowly, but surely.

Then again, she should've just floo'd Hermione if she wanted news about fairy tale land instead of coming all the way to the Burrow, (that now held a stench of cleaning spells instead of lemons and sugar), she should've expected scolding by the bushy haired woman. Besides being _there _and seeing Hermione fatter or _bigger_ as the political correct people tended to say, and with an aura of home made her hope for it for herself. And she did not fight so hard to get to the top to throw it away for dreams that seven-year-old girls had! _P__ourquoi, au nom de Dieu,_ had these domestic thoughts been plaguing her lately?

"So, Ginny did you really break up with the bloody tosser?" Ron's excited voice interrupted her musings and his wife's interrogation. She rolled her eyes inwardly and repeated for the tenth time, "Yes, Ron. I did."

"Well, then you should talk to Harry. Hermione is exaggerating." _I know, s_he thought to herself but refrained for saying out loud. Preserving her brother's innocence about her character was a good thing. She didn't fool Hermione though, that much she was sure. She would love to shut up the witch's know-it-all-voice, the problem was that Ginny didn't know what she hoped for anymore, but she had every intention to find out after the dinner with Harry tomorrow.

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**Words:** 378


	4. Quills

**Quills**

Hannah Abbot had the unfortunate habit of breaking quills. It happened when she was nervous or . . . well, it pretty much only happened when she was nervous. And as such it happened fairly often. She acquired the nervous tic in Hogwarts and blamed the late Professor Snape for giving it to her; even thinking of his icy glare gave her the creeps. It was rather ironic, in her opinion, that she had broke the quill she was writing with while hearing her boss rant about giving '_sugar quills_' to his date instead of roses that night. It was not the fact her boss was Harry Potter that made her nervous, nor the fact that giving a woman sugar quills wasn't classy (she actually thought it was quite romantic), or even the fact that her boss was having a date that made her nervous.

Well, actually the last part did upset her a bit . . . a lot. _Clichéd,_ no? She giggled helplessly, yes she was in love, well not in love _per se,_ but she did think her boss was rather ravishing and wished to snag him herself. And so would any sane woman, she thought, if their boss was the dark haired man with a body to drool for and a clumsy smile . . . the money itself would be reason enough to want to grab him, not that she cared for that bit. She liked to think she fantasized with him because of his personality, despite him not talking that much with her since their student days.

The point, she mused looking at the man talking to the minister, which had made her break her quill though, was the knowledge that his date would be Ginny Weasley. _His _Hogwarts sweetheart and, perhaps, his first love. If they started to date then there was no chance she would ever get a piece of the Boy-Who-Lived. The thoughts that captured her mind made her blush, a blush that deepened when she saw Harry moving her way.

"So, Hannah, do you think Ginny will like it if I give her sugar quills?"

She wanted to say no. Say she didn't trust the fiery head woman, who was perfect (and so different from herself) in every single way, but he was smiling and she couldn't help but saying; "Yes, Harry. She will love it."

She broke another quill afterwards.

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**Words : **400


	5. Doorway

**Doorway**

_June,_ 2002

_("It is better to be a young June-bug than an old bird of paradise" - Mark Twain)_

She stood before the doorway to hell, blushing like a virgin on her wedding night. The ball room, decorated ostentatiously, reflected nothing but gold in every direction with a distinguished smell of expensive perfume invading it. The crystal clear marble floor was filled with with previously-arranged dancing couples who who thrived on making a good appearance. The gowns some women wore were surely more valuable than her annual earnings. Her surroundings screamed corruption and dishonesty, but they were filled with such glamour she wouldn't dare to look away.

She thought she had been prepared for the glamour, but now, as she stood in the epitome of it, she couldn't help but look like a dazzled young girl. Her cheeks were flushed the same shade as her hair from drinking too much champagne to calm herself. She had given up looking collected and in control long ago; the straight face she insisted on keeping at first left her rushing to the powder room every five minutes to giggle helplessly before recapturing her breath and going back into the confusion.

Now she just looked overwhelmed, and to hell with everybody else if they thought less of her because of that! She thought she would be up to something equivalent to the Yule Ball, but, oh, how wrong she'd been. The Yule Ball had been a_ Cleansweep_ compared to the _Firebolt_ that was _this_. She grinned at her ridiculous comparisons.

Nothing could ever stop her grinning helplessly, except, of course, _him_. She hadn't noticed him at first; there were too many blonds to keep track of there, anyway. But when he approached her with a devious look and that ridiculous sneer of his (the one that made married woman swoon and babies cry), she recognized him immediately.

"Would you give me the honour of this dance?" he drawled, so characteristically that she was transported to her Hogwarts years, when even she (to her great embarrassment) had held a crush for him.

Against her better judgement, she took his hand (to this day she blames the excess of alcohol in her blood). She forgot that he surely had a reason for letting her come through the doorway to the rich and famous and that and that she would regret it later. But she didn't care; the doorway to hell was just so appealing that she forgot that when one doorway opens, another closes.

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**Words:** 399


	6. Breathless

**Breathless**

July, 1998

_~ She cries when little children play, she cries at jokes, she cries when she sees spiders, she cries when she sees her mother, she cries at . . . she just cries. ~_

He knows she is still the same. _He knows it_.

He trails his lips up her body, stopping to play with her navel, and she giggles like a young school girl. Then he is doing it all again, leaving soft butterfly kisses up her freckled skin. She shudders as he worships her body and makes her feel desired, even loved. She holds a breath when he stops and looks down at the man who holds a mischievous smile trough his plump lips. "You leave me breathless . . .", he whispers before restarting his caresses, but the way her body shifts and shakes tells him he's pulled another trigger. Soon she lets a trembling sob escape and pushes him off, running to the bathroom to cry. Again. He pulls at his hair in frustration but doesn't move; he knows not to go after her. Being with her, now, meant scattering around a ground full of eggshells and he didn't know where to tread anymore.

She returns, as always, minutes later with her eyes red but smiling. He doesn't ask; she doesn't tell.

When they both fall asleep that night, the knowledge doesn't abandon her. How can someone look beautiful breathless? They didn't look beautiful breathless; her brother didn't look beautiful breathless.

He wants to believe she is still the same.

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**Words:** 254


	7. Pain

**Pain**

Failure was for losers and pain was for wimps, that was the opinion of Pansy Parkinson. For her, and for any other woman like her, failure equalled pain, and pain equalled hurt.

Of course, she was successful (she was a Parkinson, after all) and had the world at her feet, worshipping her and envying her, and _of course_ she had enough galleons in her Gringotts account to never work another day in her life. However, she hated even the most subtle hint of failure. It was rumoured that she had attempted scratching a house-elf to death after he said her fried egg looked like a dead Pygmy Puff.

To avoid failure and thus pain, her plan was to avoid doing things she failed at. She was, after all, far from being a hard working Hufflepuff and avoiding public humiliation, in her mind, was nothing but an intelligent idea.

However, when Draco was dumped by Ginevra Weasley, the redheaded bimbo, she had to close her eyes, take a deep breath, and perform comforting duty, something she didn't succeed at.

She tried; she honestly tried to cheer him up. She bought expensive chocolate imported from _Merlin knows where_. She played Bad Auror (telling him how much of a useless git he was and how Abraxas would be rolling in his grave) and Good Auror (suggesting that she go and punch Ginny in the face). She even covered up for him, twisting lies to Narcissa and to his work colleagues. She told everyone he was doing something more fruitful than pretending to plot against the world, holding a bottle of cheap firewhiskey while his drunk house-elves partied. However, he didn't cheer up.

Her last plan was to take him to the semi-finals of the English Quidditch league. He was a known Tutshill Tornadoes fan, and they had high possibilities of winning. She almost started to celebrate when Draco started to smile and cheer for the Tornadoes, but then the worthless players had to lose. And now, she had to survive the psychological pain of failure along with the physical pain of hearing Draco's loud whining about red-haired girls on brooms and the pain of dragging him home because she wouldn't risk Side-Along Apparition. (She was sure it was causing her back serious damage.) This time, for Pansy Parkinson, failure_ literally_ hurt.

It was time to call Blaise.

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**Words:** 394


	8. Test

**Test**

**~ Snippets of 1999 ~**

You're a bloody tosser, I can't believe you missed the game! Gryffindor girls are hot; I think I fell in love with Ginny Weasley. She was on fire! I'll make her my new conquest. What do you think?

D.M

**xxx**

I think I believed you until Weasley appeared in the middle. (No, really, it wasn't even the lame stuff you wrote.) Nice try.

Blaise

P.S. Stop sending me these letters to test my loyalty. The thing with Luna was a mistake. But perhaps _you_ really got it for the little Weasley.

**xxx**

It was a test. _Obviously._

And _Luna_?

D.M

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**Words:** 100

That is my _official_ drabble. One hundred nonsensical words glued together that are supposed to be relevant to the Draco/Ginny world. _Yay_! I refuse to admit this drabble exists because I had the one for _Pain_ and the one for _Drink_ and this one was nowhere to be seen. That would be ridiculous. _Tsk_!

Because this challenge is hosted by the illustrious D/G Forum (where crazy fanatics join around to chat), joining this drabble there will be another drabble inspired by my delusional ideas in the forum's Common Rom when it's far too early (or late) for me to be awake.

It's about Filch's new cat and it is pretty much _pure_ crack with a couple of Common Room jokes, however, it does involve Draco getting together with Ginny in the end.

It doesn't make much sense. You've been warned.

Any similarity you find between the characters and people you know is nothing but a_ huge_ coincidence. I do **love** said people. :)

P.S. The drabble bellow fails at all things SP&G.

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**Test**

**N.E.W.T.s**

(Nastily Exhausting Wizarding Tests)

**YEAR: **_7th_

**CLASS: **_History of Magic_

**STUDENT : **_Draco Lucius Malfoy_

_**1) **__Describe the most tragic event taking place in the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry with effects over the entire magical community in the last 25 years._

Once upon a time in the lands of Hogwarts something drastic occurred. An occurrence that dared to be more drastic than all the pesky wars that had previously tumbled in the building; Filch bought a cat, another one.

Now, besides students having to run away from Mrs. Norris they also had to escape Mr. Megan (he thought_ she_ was _he_ when he bought it, the non-magical baboon couldn't even distinguish a wiener from a vagina).

Mr. Megan was nothing like Mrs. Norris, you see, instead of running after the trio of nerds who thrived for night excursions to the library and sell them out to Filch, Mr. Megan liked following duos of teenagers. Teenage duos, I might add, who were rather intoxicated by the possibilities a castle full of empty cupboards offered for their raging hormones. Mr. Megan liked to observe them.

As you can see it was quite a drastic occurrence, more so because I (Slytherin sex-god _extraordinaire_) couldn't do my evil night time deeds. Every time I and Harriet met in the solitary cupboard next to the Potions classroom the damn cat was there, staring at us with its blue eyes. I said we should _Avada_ it but Harriet started screeching at my suggestion. Apparently, she liked the cat. She even thought it would be exciting with _it _watching "It's like doing it in public!" she used to say before breaking into a thousand cackles in the floor.

She disturbed me; however that witch was unique and had a fascination for sharp objects and unusual experiments. I _liked_ her experiments, and Mr. Megan was ruining them.

One day, I decided the cat needed to die, to help me murder it I required the help of Leigh of Ravenclaw, that girl hated felines with a thundering passion and immediately said yes to my proposal. Together, we made a plan.

We decided that we would enter Filch's office at night and _Incendio_ the useless cat, however, when we arrived there . . ._ "My eyes!" _It was very traumatizing. I can only tell you that it involved burning bras and Harriet (my dear, Harriet of Hufflepuff) swinging a terrified cat by its tail while doing the hoedown throwdown.

The terrifying experience led to me searching professional aid with Ginny of Gryffindor. She helped me work over my new found phobia for cat's and brunette women while shagging my brains off.

I am now dating a Weasley. This fact will obviously bring repercussions over the entire magical community.

**xxx**

"So, how did the test go Draco? I got blocked in the first one."

"Oh, I aced it!"


	9. Drink

**Drink**

I want to go home.

I hate Molly Weasley and Ron Weasley. Actually, I hate the entire Weasley clan, along with everyone else who decided to attend this useless party in 'my honour'. If it was in _my honour _it simply wouldn't exist, and even if it did it would not have skinny women in skimpy dresses attached to their skin, while I look like a whale ready to burst. Most of all, _she_ wouldn't be here!

"And then I captured the Runespoor," she says, waving the champagne glass professionally, making all the men and women look like dazzled, brainless shells. She occasionally takes small sips of the bubbling substance to control her crowd, I assume, and drag their attention to her lips and to her nonsensical speech sprinkled with hints of French.

It is ridiculous how people drool over her. It's the champagne, I am positive; champagne is the symbol of luxury living, and she knows all about _that_. At least I and my swollen body in this horrid dress (made kindly by my dear mother-in-law) aren't the centre of attention anymore. Even if I lacked the child I am carrying, though, I am sure she would still be the most fascinating _creature_ present. Perhaps I feel as if I don't fit in because I never mastered the art of waving crystal cups of champagne or other _happy_ drinks around like I am cursed with a Bedazzling Hex.

I wonder why she has grown tired of Draco; Harry is certainly not up to her glamorous standards. Not that he isn't glamorous, but he is down-to-earth while she, _she wants it all_. I don't think her conquest is working, judging by Harry's scrunched face in the corner, but then, maybe he is just jealous of the bee fest of pathetic men zooming around Ginny.

One thing I am certain of is that she can wave all the champagne and fancy drinks that she wants, and I still won't trust her. That and the fact that my bladder is bursting. _Where is my loaf of a husband?_

I want to go home!

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**Words:** 351

I think I just murdered Hermione. I shall blame it on her pregnancy hormones. ;-)


	10. Anger

**Anger**

"_(...) Malfoys and the Weasleys are among the most influential families in magical Britain, the story behind their fame dates to centuries ago, when both families were nothing but __shrivelfig__ corn producers. In 1120 both the Westels and the Maléficos . . ."_

Everyone was listening curiously or sleeping shamelessly as Percy Weasley shared his discoveries. He was in the middle of explaining why shrivelfig corn was now illegal when young Victoire interrupted him.

"We aren't famous because of _that_!" she said a little too loudly, obviously asking for people to wake up and look at her. Her uncle Draco rose to her bait happy to provoke his brother-in-law, "I agree. The Malfoys weren't corn producers."

"I said shrivelfig corn, not -"

"People always know who we are because of our hair colour. It's very important to us." Victoire explained slowly as for everyone to understand, before looking at her Aunt Ginny and adding "You were there when Uncle Draco had his meltdown."

"It was nothing." The blond was quick to say.

"Oh, yes it was." Ginny Weasley, who was sitting next to him teased, "Last month when we were babysitting Victoire-"

"I am not a baby." The eight year old corrected to which her uncle agreed, however his poor attempt of distraction did not work for Ginny continued the tale ignoring his glare.

"Anyway, while we were _taking care_ of Victoire, she swapped some of my redhead enhancing hair potions from their place and when Draco took a shower-"

Hermione's (quick witch, that one) hysterical laughter interrupted her speech revealing the ending to that particular story "Draco with red hair, what a vision!"

"It was orange." Victoire pointed out.

"He was throwing a fit the entire time and even smashed his head against the wall in panic." Ginny remembered ignoring the angry pink spots appearing on her boyfriends cheeks.

"I was upset." He mumbled.

"Isn't upset another word for angry?" Bill asked, smiling at his daughter as if congratulating her for the embarrassing information about his little sister's boyfriend.

"No, it's another word for throwing a tantrum" Ginny whispered to her brother, careful not to furthermore bother the blond who was turning an unfaltering reddish colour. Draco Malfoy angry was not a nice view.

"Aunty charmed his hair back in the end. Isn't my story better than Uncle Percy's?"

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**Words: **394

I am so late on these! Anyway, this one is not necessarily centred on anger but rather on a moment where everyone makes Draco angry and, yes, it was inspired by _that_ scene of _Howl's Moving Castle_. ^_~

Also, I decided to take a break on the universe I'd been writing my previous drabbles. It will _eventually _return.


	11. Dreams

**Dreams**

Abstract whispers fill the night,

A blonde prince and an apple bite.

She didn't like to dream, she hated the feeling of seeing abstract colours, shapes and unusual situations entertaining her subconscious. She hated waking up and hugging a pillow while begging to be transported once more to a surreal reality, as if her real life was boring, and she despised the occasional nightmares, filled with guilt and shades of red.

Yet, she always woke up smiling after dreaming about the blond, she didn't know to decipher those dreams, or perhaps, they were just dreams she didn't want to decipher.

His cheek is bruised and his morals dim,

But the redhead witch still falls for him.

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**Words:** 116


	12. Puzzle

**Puzzle**

"Draco, you are doing it all wrong! That piece doesn't go there! Honestly, have you never made a puzzle before?" the redhead shrieked in front of him, spilling coffee carelessly on her new mahogany table (that he'd imported from Macau for her birthday) as she snatched the piece from his hand and put it in _the right place_.

He rolled his eyes "No, obviously not. Puzzles are a ridiculous attempt of distraction created by muggles who have nothing better to do in their free time." She snorted scrunching up her nose in distaste "Like you have something better to do on your Saturday night's."

"Actually, I do. My initial plan had been shagging you crazy instead of sitting here listening to you grumble about me not knowing how to do a mouse puzzle." He exclaimed, scolding himself for following her brother's suggestion and buying the damn cardboard box with a rat in his boxers to apologise for having forgotten her family lunch last Thursday.

She, however, ignored him, too interested in the activity she was pursuing, "It's called Disney."

"I beg your pardon." He enquired unsure of what or better _who_ was called Disney.

"The mouse, his name's Disney. Can't you see it? There in the top of the box bellow the blue castle, it's his name, Disney, the mouse." She answered still not taking her eyes away from the blasted puzzle.

"Would _you_ like to live in a castle? I could buy you one." he suddenly asked in hopes of distracting her.

"Draco" She said, raising up her head and looking into his eyes "Let's make this clear; we are not shagging tonight. Maybe you'll remember our plans next time." She smiled at his horror before turning her eyes to the half built mouse once more, "Now help me find the piece to complete his ears."

That night Draco Malfoy discovered he hated puzzles and worse, he was going to murder Ron Weasley.

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**Words:** 320

Please point out any mistakes; I will tackle them as soon as I can.


	13. Discrepant

**Discrepant**

"Adjective," She started, holding the black book up to her eye level.

"Yes carry on." The blond said, urging her to keep reading as he dipped a strawberry in the melted chocolate bowl before him.

She gave him a quick distasteful look before restarting "Adjective. Not in agreement or harmony." She paused, counting to ten mentally before adding in her sweetest voice to the man making a mess of chocolate on her bed "So, are you telling me that my underwear doesn't match?"

"Brilliant deduction, Ginevra." He drawled smoothly, now pouring a glass of champagne for himself.

"But, it's pink. Everything is pink!" she exclaimed loudly snagging the crystal cup from his hands only to regret it as she spilled the bubbling substance on her newly washed sheets.

The blond just sneered "Yes, but you see, while from your waist level up you look like a seductive dominatrix, from your waist level down you look like my Grandma Pearl."

"You don't have a Grandma Pearl, Malfoy." She hissed, spiting his last name (that she reserved for important occasions such as the present one).

He waved his hand dismissively "That's not the point Gin, the point is, what the hell were you thinking when you chose pink?"

"Harry likes pink!" she replied defensively making him sigh in exasperation.

"It clashes with your hair, darling."

"I don't even know why I called you." She snapped angrily as she flourished her wand angrily trying to clean up the chocolate covered sheets and pillows. It wasn't working.

"Because I was and still am the Slytherin Sex God, and you need my help to snag the Boy-who-peed." He drawled laughing at her poor cleaning spell attempts.

"That wasn't even funny dear; I think you are losing your touch." She teased him handing her wand for him to clean up his mess before diving into the wardrobe "What about this?" She took out a scanty piece of red lingerie and waved it at him.

"No. Green suits you better; doesn't he have a fetish with his mother's eyes?" She ignored his taunt, but decided to take his advice and grabbed the green and silver bra instead "So, don't you have any other place to be at?"

"Yes, actually I do." He handed her back her wand, kissing her in the cheek before directing himself to the fireplace.

"Send my regards to Blaise."

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**Words:** 389

Please point out any mistakes; I will tackle them as soon as I can.


	14. Holiday

**Holiday**

_Dear Ginevra Weasley,_

_Please lift your little self from the comfortable hotel bed and dress yourself into something other than my boxers; I am by the waterfront, outside. Yes, I know the idea of going outside is rather strange to you, especially after all that you ate yesterday, but I brought you to Majorca in hopes of strengthening the little world culture you have. _

_This is in no way stating that I don't like having fun with you in the bedroom, but rather that I want to show you what a real beach looks like, you may not believe it but bathing in the sea is much more interesting than swimming in that tiny lake by your house._

_Draco Malfoy _

_P.S. If you are considering burning this, keep in mind all the fun and adventures we can have under the sea._

Ginny scrunched the letter in her hand, frowning slightly at her reflection in the mirror; she would make him pay for making her get out of bed. For her the word holiday included doing nothing all day and enjoying the luxuries offered by the five star hotel she was in, not looking at ancient monuments. The promises of underwater adventures, however, made her lips creep into a smile.

She would find a way to have _fun_.

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**Words:** 217

Please point out any mistakes; I will tackle them as soon as I can.


	15. Mirror

**Mirror**

_We dance in the street for dimes_

_And in the end of the day, we remember the past times._

She had always liked mirrors, she liked observing herself and liked the familiar ritual of gazing at her own face every morning before plunging into action; she liked to wonder if she would be pretty when she grew up, or if her red hair would eventually fade brown.

Years later she still spent some minutes gazing at her reflexion; she never gave up the ritual. Of course, now, instead of a modest clear mirror or a mirror with a gold frame, she took a little time every morning (before sitting in some dirty corner and falling back into dreams of the past) to gaze at her reflection in the storefront of a grocery shop. It was not the same, but it reflected her appearance well enough for her to believe she was still pretty.

Her hair might not be as vibrant as it was before and her freckles (she always liked her freckles, boys – _what a lifetime ago!_ – used to say they were cute) might be fading away in her pale face (fruit of the lack of sun perhaps) but she was still pretty. She lacked wrinkles almost completely, and had a figure some women would die for (it wasn't that difficult to get it, she never understood what all the fuss in the muggle world was about. All it took were a couple of days, or more, without eating).

Her teeth were straight (though not as a white as they used to be) and her eyes were warm – _he _used to like her eyes. He wasn't pretty anymore, she wondered if he still had the blond hair, she liked to believe he did. How long had it been? Three, two months since it happened? She didn't keep count, every day was the same – they looked the same (the pompous looks, or pitiful smiles), sounded the same, and left the same greedy coins behind, as if they were making a big difference in the world.

Jenifer (she learned her name after months of encountering her every morning) came to open the grocery store and smiled her way (a pitiful smile); she knew it was time to leave. She would be back tomorrow to see if she was still pretty, to see if she was still Ginny.

She ought to be.

* * *

**Words:** 396


	16. Seeking Peace

**Seeking Peace**

xxx**  
**

**THE DAILY MAIL**

_**A strike of Brilliance**_

September 15th brought with it the release of the highly awaited book, _Seeking Peace_ by Daniel Measley. The horror thriller is a sequel to _Seeking Quiet_ (New York's Times #1 best seller) in the _Escaping _trilogy.

In _Seeking Peace_ the young couple (Gabriel and Dorothy) who are already loved and admired by millions of fans around the world have to escape the _Red Ups's_ who are trying to recruit them and make them help them create more _Red Ups's minions_.

Expect a lot of twists and the fantastic narrative that Measley has made us fall in love with.

You can not miss out on this one!

Article written by, _Peter Murray_.

* * *

"_The best book of the year so far." – The New York Times._

"_Daniel Measley and his characters always find a way to enchant us." – The National Enquirer_

"_His creative and ability to write prose never fails to thrill the readers. The 'Red Dug Tunnel' is one of the best villain hideouts ever created." – Gabby Malloy (Author of "Why do men wear ties?")_

"_We eagerly await the next instalment."—Publishers Weekly_

_

* * *

_

**THE DAILY PROPHET**

_**A strike of Disgrace**_

After the war little is known about the Malfoy family, except that the young heir (Draco Lucius Malfoy) tied it together with the youngest Weasley (Ginevra Molly Weasley), obviously in an act of profound desperation. Eye witnesses, have in fact claimed to see them fighting in public several times and a divorce is soon expected.

It is common knowledge among the population that the aristocratic family fell in disgrace after the imprisonment of Lucius Malfoy, but to those readers out there who are still reticent of that idea, here is revelation that will surely shock you: _— The Malfoys are now living as muggles._

Apparently due to the monetary crisis in the family, Draco Malfoy (who used to have quite a bunch of admirers in his adolescence) moved to the muggle world to work. There he is trying his luck by selling stories to the muggles (under the name Daniel Measley) in exchange for a couple of sickles (or pounds, like the _muggles_ tend to say).

We expect they will soon be begging at Potter's door to national hero, Harry Potter (who is known to have married his high school sweetheart Hermione Granger).

Remember you read it here first,

Article written by, _Rita Skeeter_.

* * *

**Words: **398

I am not sure if this one is legal.

It is an interpretation of the prompt, nobody told us it had to be literal. ^_~


	17. Questioning

**Questioning**

**_What are your sentiments on rainbows?_**

_**a)** They make me happy_

_**b)** Cookies are great_

_**c)** There are seven colours in a rainbow_

Ginny huffed impatiently biting the tip of her quill, wondering how many more minutes of her life she had to waste sitting in the secluded classroom. The answer was rather obvious; she had to stay in the uncomfortable wooden chair inside the claustrophobic room until she completed the _blasted_ questions in the useless parchment in front of her.

The post-war psychological methods imposed by the Ministry were just as preposterous as her current situation, for the simple reason that she was in this situation because of the post-war psychological methods imposed by said institution. Yes, she was close to becoming lunatic.

The big idea was for students to complete these questionnaires (100 random questions, in exchange of 100 random answers) that were supposed to help organize a complete educational help-course to take place the following year. The Ministry had forgotten that she (alike all the other seventh year's) would not be there next year, so all the thinking about how many colours a rainbow actually had was a waste of time.

She circled option **_' b '_** and the letters in front of her dissolved in a creepy manner forming a new question.

**_Do you like your uniform?_**

_**a)**Yes_

_**b)** No_

_**c)** Evil_

_What was next? Her sentiments on the Trelawney's hairstyle? _Rolling her eyes she dipped the tip of her quill in the ink jar before selecting the first option, contemplating how the uniforms affected a person's mental health.

**_Are you pretty?_**

_**a)** Yes_

_**b)** No_

_**c)** House Elf_

She knew a couple of people (her boyfriend being one of them) who would have chosen the first, instead, she went for the last one (Dobby used to be very fashionable).

**_Are you crazy?_**

_**a) **Banana_

_**b)** Yes_

_**c)** Obviously_

She smiled. That should be the last one (she was not keeping count, she had given up after "_How do you like your tea?"),_ it made sense taking in consideration the questionnaire started by asking if she was sane. She circled the** ' c '** , knowing that dating the blond boy from Slytherin made her certifiably insane. She was sitting up when she noticed the small letters in front of her.

**_Do you fly?_**

_**a)** On a broom_

_**b)** No_

**c)** _Motorcycle__  
_

She wanted to cry.

* * *

**Words: **397

By answering the questionnaire you are answering to questioning by the Ministry. So it fits the prompt (I hope) .


	18. Red

**Red**

_It's red and she's half surprised at it, one would expect something different, royal. But instead it's red. Just like hers._

**x**_  
_

The Hogwarts grounds are silent as the two students meet. It's past midnight and even more past curfew, but they don't care and honestly they never did.

"It's cold" she whispers, tugging at her thin nightgown half expecting him to lend her his coat. Obviously, he doesn't.

"It's October," he states, as if scolding her for her ignorance "Are you ready?"

"Yes." she replies a little too loudly, earning a pointed glare from him.

**x**

_They never really cared about each other or their lives, so she doesn't cry. She just lets her eyes stare at the red._

**x**_  
_

As he walks over to the roof top edge, his eyes gleam a little too dangerously. She snorts; the situation in its entirety is pretty ridiculous as is the reason behind their acts "Are you sure you want to do this, we're adults, you know?"

"You're sixteen" He corrects, gazing at the ground far below them.

She rolls her eyes at his response. "Like you're much older."

**x**

_She looks at her fingers, they're red too. They always matched; they were both completley messed up._

**x**_  
_

He ignores her taunt "So, are you ready?"

"You already asked me that." She points out, before removing her wand and tugging it tightly, "Don't you trust me anymore?"

He is silent, but she knows the answer. They wouldn't do this every week if he didn't trust her, or maybe the fact that he doesn't trust her (and that she doesn't trust him) is why they do it. It feels real.

**x**

_It was his fault not hers. She knows she should scream for help, but she can't look way. There's too much red._

**x**

Without any more warning he jumps. She watches him fall waiting for the last possible moment before whispering in a clear voice "_Levicorpus._"

As usual his pretty head doesn't smash the ground, and she lets go a breath she didn't know she was holding as she watches him dangle. She sees his smile and knows he feels free.

"You next?"

**x**

_She is still staring at his blood when they find them._"_It's red, just like yours Harry."_

_They don't understand when she explains, but nobody blames her either. She wonders if he felt free in the last seconds, he must have. _

_He must have been smiling._

_

* * *

_

**Words: **400_  
_

I will probably redo this one. I don't know. _Meh_._  
_


	19. Happiness

**Happiness**

_Sometimes one has to be insane in hopes of keeping others sane._

Ginevra Weasley was smiling. It was raining, it was cold, and her bedroom window insisted on not closing, but she couldn't help but smile anyway. She felt happy; no, that wasn't quite the word. For months, she had been feeling giddy, as if the world was her playground, but today she felt alive, real, free . . . and sane.

Outside, she could see George panicking because the boxes of products that had just arrived were in danger of being destroyed by the pesky raindrops. Ron didn't look happy either. Apparently, a swarm of paparazzi had discovered his secret route to work and bombarded him with questions about his unborn daughter. Her smile grew; she hadn't seen him truly frowning in a very long time, and she didn't know how she hadn't missed that particular expression.

She gazed at her left hand, which held the small bottle filled with a shiny liquid and wondered if she could do without it.

She knew she could; yesterday was the proof. It was a Tuesday, and for once, it wasn't perfect. Firstly, it was raining, and her new shoes were destroyed beyond repair and for once, her boss didn't fill her office with chocolate boxes and her favourite flowers but acted like the man she once knew and told her to shut up while using _his_ smirk. He hadn't smirked in so long that she didn't know how to react, and then he dumped her. She laughed all the way home.

She had fun. _Oh__,__ yes_, she'd missed how having a miserable day felt like. It was a day when one just wanted to cry while hugging a pillow and then drown in big fattening pieces of chocolate or Odgen's Finest Firewhiskey.

Except she didn't cry, because she knew she could fix it with a little taste from the liquid in the small bottle that she held in her hand. She knew that if she took a sip, it would probably stop raining, her window would miraculously close, the paparazzi would conveniently forget Ron's secret route, and Draco Malfoy would send her chocolates apologising for his outburst, promising he would not stop paying her mother and brother's hospital bills.

She knew she could live without everything being perfect, but others couldn't so she raised the bottle and drank for luck and for happiness. It wasn't what she got.

* * *

**Words:** 400

The shiny liquid is Felix Felicis ("Liquid Luck"), and the reason she isn't brain dead after all the abuse is "just because." I suppose we can pretend she drinks small quantities. Either way the only secondary effects mentioned are giddiness, recklessness, and dangerous overconfidence and she doesn't suffer from the last because she doesn't really want all the "good luck".

I am sure that still doesn't make sense. ;-)


	20. Family

**Family**

She took pride in being an independent woman; she flew for the Harpies and was the face of the new WonderWitch products line. She had an apartment in magical London and another one in Muggle Paris. People addressed her as Ginevra, and though everyone knew she was a proud Weasley, nobody thought of them when doing business with her. Probably because she didn't already have five kids around her or know how to cook – far from it, actually.

However, when her distressed brother called her in the middle of the night because his wife went in labour, she couldn't help but rush to the overcrowded Burrow and tug little children into bed while telling stories about the Big Bad Wolf. They were, after all, her family, and were there to support each other – even though, in her case, all her family could do was embarrass her at the Ministry balls by screaming to one another (in a rather loud voices) how caviar tasted like bogey Flavour Beans. Still, they were her family, and though she took pride on her independence, social status, and lack of a desire to find a man and have a ranch of red haired babies, she loved them.

* * *

**Words:** 204

_Meh. _


	21. Divorce

**Divorce**

"Daddy!"

Draco cursed his ex-wife for forcing him into this. How couldn't he have said, 'I bet it's not that hard.' when she Floo'ed him at one in the morning, complaining about how _impossible_ it was to take their daughter shopping? Now, while Ginny painted her nails a disgusting shade of green that'd match her fiancé's eyes, he was walking around Paris with a seven-year-old.

"What, Ariana?" he said wearily. They'd already bought eight dresses, a giant teddy bear he had to carry on his back, and nearly five kilos of candy.

"Can I get a cat?" she asked sweetly, as though she wouldn't throw a tantrum like she had in Zonko's if he said no.

Before he could start explaining that Ginny would murder him if Ariana brought another pet into her household, she made eye contact, and he was lost to her silver eyes (so like his) and cute little frown.

"Just don't give it a ridiculous name," he sighed.

"I was thinking of Miau." Her lips turned into what appeared to be a smirk, making him forget any argument he'd have had against it. He let his lips imitate hers, thinking of how much Ariana smirking annoyed Potter. "Drarry agrees too!"

He cringed at the mention of the giant pink doll he also had to carry on his back, making it look like the doll was doing unspeakable things to the teddy. Harry had bought it for her, and she named after her two 'Daddy's' and took it everywhere. Draco hated the name and the doll because it was pink, heavy, and _he'd_ given it to her.

He bought Miau and four other dresses before Ariana made him try something called McRonald's (who definitely held similarities to his old brother-in-law). He was late returning her home to Ginny, so he had to endure an hour of her screaming that he couldn't say no, that it was good _they_ were raising Ariana, because he was spoiling her. He longed to shut her up like he used to, by kissing her on the lips and, _oh, _other things, but that was before she turned out to be a bitch.

In the end, the suffering was worth it because he annoyed his ex-wife, made sure Ariana wasn't turning into a humble Potter and . . .

"I love you, Daddy!"

. . . In the end, it was just all worth it.

* * *

**Words:** 400

Inspired by Kim's (Boogum) Family drabble idea:

- Draco going shopping with his daughter, who naturally has him wrapped around her thumb and makes him carry all her toys, including a giant pink doll house.

Which I completely altered and then murdered. Gah!

I had to cut so much out of this one to fit it into 400 words that It was painful. I had to remove my precious Hermione bashing and Ariana's incapability to say L's. Anyway, it fits the requirements. Also thank you to Julia (Julia Claire) for helping with the reducing process.

Before I murdered the above drabble I was thinking of just being naughty and posting it all and then gluing an official drabble explaining why Ginny had left Draco and how she felt sorry (yes, I am evil). It is bellow.

* * *

She felt like crying after signing the papers, but it was her fault. It was she who took comforting a step too far while her best friend sobbed in her lap because his wife left him for her job. She felt sorry for him and let her school girl crush rule her, either because her husband was a work whore or because she was truly and remarkably drunk. She did it, it was her fault, so although she wants to, she can't complain at the divorce or at the lack of the emerald ring on her finger. She just can't.

**Words:** 100


	22. Flying

**Flying**

When she was five, she got her first broomstick, but soon burst into tears because she didn't know how to ride it. She was upset for hours, until Daddy came home from work, gave her a hug and said, "Come here, I'll teach you how to fly. . ."

Daddy's little girl, that was what she was. He was the one who tucked her into bed after telling her ridiculous tales about his brothers and she loved it. They used to count the stars, sometimes, or connect them and form drawings of faraway lands and places she could visit in her dreams.

They also shared a secret rhyme. It was utterly ridiculous, but it was theirs, and it always made her feel better. At seven, when she was scared of the dark, and at eighteen, when some boy dumped her, she'd feel sad and gloomy and hateful towards everyone. But then Daddy would come and they'd whisper their secret words and she'd always felt better. Even when she was twenty-eight and he was fifty-four, and their whispered words sounded ridiculous in broad daylight, they'd say them anyway. She knew Daddy would always be there for her.

He'd been there for her when her mother grounded her for practising Quidditch instead of learning charms or when she cried because studying for OWL's was just '_stupid'_. He'd been cheering for her when she tried out for the Falcons, Flooing her that morning with their ten-year-old special rhymes. He gave her the strength to go out there and do her best, reminding her that he'd still love her even if she fell on her butt in front of Kevin Broadmoor.

He'd even been there for her when she decided to marry Malfoy's spawn. His initial reaction may have been a _very _ rude word, but in the end, there he was, whispering their secret pact before handing her over to him at the altar. He'd been there for his grandchildren, to whom he'd shared the secret with. Even at forty-three, as she soared, flying high above the treetops she knew that if she looked down, she'd still see him; ready to catch her, always.

"_When I grow up I want to learn how to fly, how to lift my hands up and touch the sky . . ."_

"_. . .But if you fall 'cause you flew too high, I'll catch you before the end of the night."_

_

* * *

_**Words: **398

Laaaame, but I really didn't know what do with this one. Which is ridiculous since the prompt is just _freaking_ "flying". Anyway, I decided on some Rose/Ron fluff.

Because fluff is healthy. ^_^


	23. Drowning

**Drowning**

She's rolling down the hill like a three-year-old, filling her hair with mud as she says goodbye to all her life's dreams. She feels ridiculous but still takes the bottle of firewhiskey to her lips, drinking and then spitting it all out.

She's giggling; she's happy. She is laughing and people laugh when they're happy, or when they're drunk, or when their marriage of fifteen years has just ended. It makes sense to her or maybe it doesn't, and that's reason enough for the giggles to erupt uninvited from her mouth.

She's a murderer, she realizes as she stops to think for a second plucking grass strands with her left hand. Then she laughs a little more, thinking about how hysterical it all is. The world around her is just _so_ hilarious. Perhaps it's because of the half-empty (or is it half-full?) bottles lying beside her.

She's drunk because she just got fired. She told her boss she looked like a deranged fat whale before proceeding to strip tease on top of the desk she sat at for more than a decade. _Or is she drunk because he left her? _Her husband, the love of her life, is having an affair with her best friend and she just feels as if the world is playing the biggest joke on her. She realises that she probably shouldn't consider Hermione her best friend anymore.

She's crying because it's all too funny and after screaming at the top of her lungs beneath the dark sky on a hill somewhere in the middle of Britain, tears start falling from her eyes. She doesn't know if she should laugh or cry anymore, if she should be happy or sad.

She's drowning, from all the tears she's swallowing and the feeling that maybe everything isn't as funny as a half a litre of firewhiskey makes it all seem.

So Ginny Potter laughs, drinks and cries under the moonlight as she drowns in the memories of the life she feels she's just lost.

* * *

**Words:** 335

Re-Uploaded because of 'missing-sentence-issue' . Sorry!


	24. Bed

**WARNING:** The following drabble contains Draco in a blouse. I shall not edit for the sake of posterity. *sigh*

* * *

**Bed**

**-x-  
**

**Don't try and open the door. I've changed the spells.**

**Love,**

**Your **_**big, huge**__**,**__** cranky**_** wife**

You ought to avoid things you dislike.

"_Ginny!_ It's raining!"

There were many things she personally disliked: her nephews and nieces making a scene when she was shopping in Diagon Alley, feeling fat, her bookshelf being disorganized, her salad being too salty, or Golias shedding fur on the couch after her husband let him in. To avoid being sour about these things, she simply avoided them. Nice and simple!

"I'm sorry."

Today, however, she was pondering if she would be too annoyed by the muddy stains her husband would create on the carpet in the entrance hall if she let him in. Looking at Draco, begging for an entrance, his hair a mess, his lips cracked because of the cold, and his expensive new white blouse destroyed, she wondered if she was being too harsh. As he would say, he looked unworthy and quite ridiculous.

It must be a pain to be Draco and look ridiculous.

"Let me in! _Please_."

Perhaps he'd already suffered enough. Three hours outside in the cold ought to have done the trick. He did look miserable. She tugged her wand out of her pocket, trying to remember the counterjinx the man at the shady shop had taught her.

"I didn't mean to call you fat or huge or cranky. It just slipped out!"

She stopped, raising her voice and yelling through the mahogany door, "Do you really think I'm huge?" He didn't reply. She lowered her wand, moving towards the stairs.

"No, _noooo_ – you're not huge!"

Too late.

"_Ginny!_ Where am I supposed to sleep?"

She turned around and glared at the soaked man trough the window in the door.

"Oh_,__ thank Merlin!"_

Then she pointed her hand to the eastern part of the grounds, where the tiny, messy shed he'd built last summer stood.

"Are you serious?"

"Yes," she said in a sweet voice, putting her hand over her_ huge, fat_ stomach. "You should know not to call your pregnant wife fat."

"But I-"

"Hush, darling!" she exclaimed "You made your bed – you decided to gossip with my unworthy brother about me– now, sleep in it". Then she turned around and walked up the stairs.

She smiled; tomorrow, she wouldn't be seeing any mud stains on the carpet.

* * *

**Words: **392


	25. Balloon

**Balloon**

_August 30, _2002

The guests looked pleased, the caterer's food was _brilliant_, the sun was shining, no dead flowers appeared to be destroying the scenery (we'd opted for balloons this year – one of her many stipulations to avoid '_The Curse'_), and no stray animals appeared to intend on disrupting the 'party' any time soon.

More importantly of all, Hermione looked happy, smiling, even if it was strained, as she surveyed the tent, almost celebrating the fact that we'd made it. Of course, we hadn't yet, I thought, glancing at my watch. There were still thirty minutes left of this torture. It was the kind of 'party' that only someone like Malfoy would have enjoyed.

_Pop!_ There it was – the distinguished sound of a balloon popping, followed by another twenty _pops_. Frowns appeared on the guests' faces and my wife looked exasperated.

"_Ron!_" she whispered after she managed to get to me. "You promised that there would be no pranks!"

"Well, yes, but-"

"Nothing!" she interrupted "Today had to be perfect! Letting _him _stay was a bad idea!"

Hermione was obsessed with everything being perfect and in control. Sometimes things didn't work – she could accept that – but apparently the fact that on every August thirtieth something went wrong was unacceptable. Three years ago, two of the bridesmaids had caught dragon pox and had not been able to attend the ceremony. The year after, a group of dogs had run into the Burrow and in Aunt Muriel's words, _'mauled'_ Hermione (although all they did was destroy her new summer dress) and all the roses mysteriously died.

She insisted our wedding date was cursed.

"George is family!" I said, which didn't work because, according to Hermione, that was one the reasons behind 'The Curse'. That was why Harry wasn't here either. Earlier he'd appeared with Ginny, making Hermione panic and not-so-subtly send them away. They'd forgive her, we all knew how sensitive this issue was.

"You know the Muggles say, third time's the charm.'" she said in a strangely calm voice, the kind of voice that doesn't suit a women – or my wife, for that matter. "I really thought today would be the day!" Then she started crying.

I panicked. Crying scared me. I was pondering between calling the Auror emergency brigade or telling a lame joke when I heard her whisper, "Oh, just screw it!" before interrupting my frown and kissing me.

Maybe the third time _was _the charm!

* * *

**Words:** 400!

Oh, _gah gah gah_! I am not even sure if the drabble makes sense and the ending is rushed. But then I don't think its too out there for Hermione to start crying and then deciding that its all useless, right? _Right?_

*looks at shoes*


	26. Compressed

**Compressed**

'_They should hang__ them by the thumbs and let them scream.'_

People took him for an ignorant fool, but he _read_ stuff. He knew stuff. He ordered books, and he knew that at least 9% of the world's population hated children and their slimy, runny noses. What he hated, however, were teenagers.

Filthy, hormone raged witches and wizards who didn't have high standards and believed every broom closet did the trick. It was disgusting how he had to find them compressing against each other – cheeks flushed and breaths ragged – when he opened the door.

A shriek left the girl's mouth before she quickly tried to untangle her hands and legs from the boy's body as he rushed to grab the green tie and black trousers discarded in the floor moments ago.

Disgusting.

"_Get out of here__,__ ya' filthy bastards__,__ before I call Professor Snape."_

He would've called the Professor – that was what he should do – if he hadn't told him last year not to awake him for _those_ matters. All he could do was threaten and avoid the _second corridor_. There was only so much Mrs. Norris could handle in her old age; he did not want to stress her out and he did not want to see the nuisances as they'd come to the world.

Nowadays the little bastards could do anything they wanted at Hogwarts; if it were in his grandmum Augusta's time he'd dump them in the dungeons.

He hated teenagers. They were disgusting.

Not that what he'd found some adults in the castle doing was better.

_Disgusting._

* * *

**Words:** 250

Oh, yeah! I was in the mood for a little Argus. I think I ruined him. At least I wrote another drabble of doom. ^_~


	27. Reinvigorated

**Reinvigorated**

'_Cause Potter said so._

After the war, his weeks at Hogwarts were pretty much crap. They were whispered rumours, secret smiles, nasty wannabe sneers, and silences he knew he deserved. He felt stressed and honestly, like shit. But he didn't complain – he was a Malfoy - so he smirked it away, as if everything was fine, and it was. Potter saved the world, and everyone ought to be feeling free and fresh to start over. _Ecstatic to rebuil__d__ their lives from the ashes and be happy._

Potter's speech from the first week still burned in his mind and messed with his thoughts, perhaps because he truly believed that he could rebuild the Malfoy name as an honest man, or perhaps because it was lame (one can never fully leave the taunting teenage side behind). However he ought to be happy. After all, Potter had recommended it.

That's why he didn't feel guilty when he woke up every Saturday morning at the crack of dawn to watch her. Or maybe he didn't feel guilty because teenage boys (and every man who prised himself) shouldn't feel bad about spying on a fetching young girl.

Besides he wasn't seeing anything the little Weasley didn't publicly display. She might be sweating, breathless and with her cheeks burning, but she was only running in a bunch of old rags.

After seeing her that Saturday many months ago when he'd felt like flying for some unknown but obviously divine reason, he was hooked.

He always felt better after watching her as he flew his broom above her. Perhaps it was because he believed she was gorgeous (and liked to imagine himself ravishing her), or perhaps it was because even though she looked like a mess (the hot kind), she always looked pleased with herself after completing the fifteen laps around the Quidditch field.

Sometimes observing her led to embarrassing moments. Like the Saturday she winked at him, obviously noticing she was being watched, and he fell off his broom. To his displeasure, instead of her rushing to help him and letting him have his way with her, she just laughed and walked away.

Still, it was worth it. He treasured his morning dose of Ginny Weasley. He'd practically begged the sixth-years – the same that pretentiously sneered his way –to get them to reveal her name.

One day he would talk to her.

One day . . . After all, Potter said so.

* * *

**Words:** 398


	28. Spilt Milk

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **The following drabble is not my fault. Sarah wished for me to continue my_ 'Draco Bieber'_ lunatic early morning musical!Drabble. Since I lack the inspiration to think of something better, here you are:

Scream your heads off!

* * *

**Spilt Milk**

_Oooh, Oooh, Oooh_

_So the milk was spilled, it's a disaster_

_You feel like crying, you need a plaster_

_But baby remember that the Milk is already spilled_

_Your worst nightmare is fulfilled._

As the male's voice faded, the frown on the younger woman's forehead increased. She sighed before looking at him sceptically. "Seriously?" she asked.

Yesterday he thought cats were going to make him rich (the zillion of galleons in his Gringott's account weren't enough), today it was milk.

"Yes."

She rubbed her face. This was becoming a ritual.

Many were jealous of her job. Not only did she travel all over the world, but she also got to do it with _the_ Draco Malfoy - the new hit singer who, besides being hot, managed to create lyrics that rivalled the ones of Celestina Warbeck's step-daughter.

Everyone forgot she also had to clean up his messes, make sure his endorsers still loved him, and endure his ridiculous inspiration sprouts.

According to the Prophet, his number-one hits (five so far) had a deepness modern music lacked. However, in between those brain farts he wrote a lot of crap that she had to stop from being published.

Which could be hard when working with someone who thought everything he wrote was brilliant and blessed by Merlin.

"So," she started, "your new single, the one that is supposed to rival Henrietta Bloom's 'Shake it with the Moon' may I add, is about the tragedy of spilling one's milk?"

"It's more the idea that you shouldn't cry over spilt milk," he corrected, smiling at his own brilliance. "It comes from the Muggle saying, you know?"

"No," she answered, trying to find a way to explain to him that pre-pubescent girls who thought their love lives were over every second month, would not appreciate his metaphor.

Draco's laughter made it even harder for her to think. "And you call yourself a Muggle-lover."

"I never said that!" she snapped. "I just wish you'd understand that those lyrics are _stupid_!"

As usual, he didn't take offence. Instead, he leaned over, whispering suggestively in her ear, "Maybe you can find a way to make me agree with you."

"_Urgh!" _she screamed, leaving him alone in the lounge, yelling as she went, "Have it your way! But don't come crying to me over crappy records or spilt milk!"

Draco grinned. She'd be back, they both knew it. No way in hell would she let him publish _that_. Maybe he'd give her a break tomorrow, but then there was something about _Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans_ that deeply inspired him.

* * *

**Words:** 397


	29. Contempt

**Contempt**

_She watches him._

_He's gliding the skies, his eyebrows furrowed and his hair a mess, but he's beautiful – she wonders what it'd be like to run her hands trough his hair or even to kiss him._

_It's fucked up, but nobody knows and she doesn't really care._

**-x-**

Since Draco had discovered, she has been spending her afternoons sitting in front of an old woman with hair painted an unflattering blond who was paid to ask her stupid questions.

"How is your relationship with your sister-in-law?" the woman asked, dragging each syllable for an impossible amount of time.

"Which one?"

One would have thought that the fancy shrink her husband had hired would've caught up with the fact that all her brothers were attached to a specific bimbo by now. Of course, she hadn't.

"Which one do you want to talk about?"

"I'm fine with all of them," Ginny murmured.

She wasn't jealous of Fleur's beauty, Audrey's classy attitude, or Angelina's successful career. She certainly wasn't jealous of Hermione's crappy life.

She had no reason to be jealous. She had money, beautiful children who played the piano and spoke five different languages, and a perfect husband. Draco was rich, cultured and handsome. He'd stayed with her even when he'd found out she was more fucked up than all of his whores locked up in a room together.

However, she wasn't the one screaming her head off because house-elves didn't want socks. She didn't know how Ron could accept his wife's bossy manners, or how he could like running his hands trough that excuse for hair. He could've had anyone. He could've had _her_.

**-x-**

_She had finally had the courage. She had thought the flowers, the candles, the red lingerie would please him. They didn't._

"_What's wrong?" _

_Instead, his voice had been shocked as he had untangled himself from her before rushing to call Draco because "something wasn't right"._

**-x-**

It was _sick_.

_She _was sick. That was what Draco had told their children when she cried at night, before kissing her and tucking her into bed.

She _did _have the perfect husband, if one ignored his escapes every Tuesday night – which she did. Yet it wasn't _him_ she wanted.

Drawling words drag her back to the present, "How do you feel?"

"Contempt."

She has everything she could have possibly wanted – except for _him_.

Ron.

* * *

**Words:** 493

*cringes* I _tried_.

All Insanity Rights © imadoodlenoodle.

She wanted a _Gon_ – this is the closer I'll ever get.


	30. Acceptance

**Acceptance**

The Great Hall is silent as everyone watches Draco. The man who managed to clean his name and re-build his empire is showing off his fortune (as if he'd never lost it) and perfect life in the students' reunion.

"Ginevra and I have an announcement to make."

**-x-**

_She never would have thought Draco would fall for Ginny– the redhead who manages to always look perfect; even with insane hair-dos and cheep dresses. She doesn't know what her best friend (and once lover) sees in Ginny, but she swallows her pride (and her superiority) and hugs the younger girl._

**-x-**

They've been together for two years now. Their relationship had caught everyone by surprise.

**-x-**

_Of course he doesn't like the way his little sister drapes her arms around him. She could've had Harry, yet she prefers Ferret boy. He hates Malfoy, yet he shakes his hand. _

**-x-**

Ginny tugs Draco's hand, watching him (probably for the first time in his life) looking nervous as he glances at their friends and family.

**-x-**

_She hates that her baby girl chose the Malfoy boy. She doesn't hate him, but she doesn't like how he's taking her little girl away. Still, she hugs him and invites him over to dinner._

**-x-**

"We're getting married!" the redhead finally exclaims, tired of watching her fiancé fidget around, trying to find the smirk he lost as soon as he saw Bill.

**-x-**

_He used to be in love with Ginny, and it's hard to see her engage the git. Yet he knows it's for the best. Ginny wants the world, and all he wants is peace. _

_**-x-**_

The engaged couple kisses, ignoring the rest of the now silent hall. They know that even though nobody loves the idea, they will accept it.

Because they love each other, and they don't really give a damn about the rest of the world.

* * *

**Words: 304**

_Meh._

It's a drabble. :\


	31. City

**City**

London

Every city has its drama, its charm and its secrets. London is no exception. Amongst the troubled witches and wizards who anxiously buzz through the concrete walls, the adventurers seek fame, peace and love.

Surrounded by its high buildings robbers prepare, assassins plot and lovers meet. And in the darkness of the night, anything can happen.

Outside London, Ginevra and Draco have separate lives. She is married to the man who saved the world, living and caring for his scars in a small cottage near her mother's house. She has no ties to the man trying to rebuild his empire with a blonde by his side.

It would be insane to think of them as partners.

Nobody would dare to compare them to the redhead girl who's always seen next to the blond man walking the streets of London. Nobody would dare to assume that the exhausted young girl hidden behind Harry Potter could look so superfluous and insane next to someone who would never walk amongst people of inferior calibre.

Nobody would think they'd ever walk Muggle London together. Nobody would think of them as lovers.

* * *

**Words: **198

:[

I fail at this challenge.


	32. Blue

**Blue**

"I can't do _this_."

"What? Why? "

**-x-**

I turned down the man who made me happy just because I didn't have something _blue_.

-x-

Draco,

Realisations are a funny thing; we often realize things when it's too late.

The most important decisions of our lives are based on small details. It's dumb, but back then when I had to choose _them _or me, it mattered. When aiming towards forever, people need more than just _love_.

We didn't have anything. Well_, I_ didn't have anything. I know you'd survive, but would love be enough in thirty years if I couldn't even find a _freaking_ blue thing to hold to during the ceremony?

Two years ago I'd answer that question with yes – Hell, yes! – But I'm not the careless rebel who did what she wanted anymore. I am the bawling woman who just realized she stormed out of the 'wedding of the year' because she couldn't find anything blue to save her life.

I'm not the runaway you met in France, fleeing the problems, fleeing her broken family and running away from the idea that she eventually had to grow up. I'm not that crazy, rash girl anymore. I can't be.

I always thought I'd be happy in the end – I told you that. Remember? I'd never waste my life running after others' dreams; that's, well, _stupid_. I have my own.

Yet you made me believe I could share my dreams with you and tricked me into falling in love. You were everything I didn't want, yet all I'd hoped for. Pathetic, but _exhilarating_.

I wrongfully assumed I could run away and deal with the consequences later. But in the end, I care too bloody much about them. I'd never be happy with _them_ miserable. I have to find my way back home.

And, well, I didn't have something blue.

So, don't blame me for dumping you even though it's my fault, blame Merlin for being a messed up old coot who couldn't give your fiancée something blue.

Please find some bimbo, marry her and be happy, even if she'll never be me.

~ Ginny

**-x-**

"It's not right."

"Yes it is! _Let's go_."

"**No.**"

He didn't follow me. Half of me wished he had; the other half was thankful.

I had to find my way back home even if it made me unhappy. I had to help them.

* * *

**Words:** 399

o_O

I'm not sure if Ginny would ever write/speak like that.

Oh well it's as good as they're going to get.


End file.
